Date: The Night of the 2nd Day of the Month of Blossoms, Year 1107 of the Imperial Calendar.
Location: The Royal Bathhouse, Imperial Palace.
The wedding night did not begin with a kiss. It began with a bath.
Aanya was led by a procession of five silent handmaidens into the Royal Bathhouse. It was a cavernous room built of white marble, heated by underground springs. Steam rose in thick, swirling clouds, smelling of jasmine and wet stone.
"Disrobe, Your Highness," the Head Maid, an older woman named Mara, commanded gently.
Aanya stood near the edge of the pool. Her hands trembled as she undid the clasps of her violet silk dress. She stepped out of the heavy fabric, shivering despite the heat. She felt exposed. She felt like a sheep being sheared before the slaughter.
She stepped into the water. It was warm, embracing her body like a second skin.
But Aanya did not relax. She held her head high, keeping her chin well above the water level.
Do not get the face wet, she repeated the mantra. Do not let the steam soften the edges.
The maids moved around her with practiced efficiency. They scrubbed her arms with sea sponges. They exfoliated her legs with crushed almond shells. They washed her hair with rosewater, careful not to let the suds touch her forehead.
"The face," Mara announced, picking up a crystal bowl. "We must cleanse the face."
Aanya flinched, splashing water. "No!"
The maids froze. Mara looked at her with mild surprise.
"Your Highness?"
"I... I have sensitive skin," Aanya stammered, clutching her knees to her chest in the water. "I have a specific regimen. I cannot use common soaps. Just water. Please. Just cool water."
Mara smiled indulgently. "Do not fear, child. We do not use common soap on the Emperor's Consort."
She signaled to a younger maid, who brought forward a small, ornate bottle carved from amber glass. It was stoppered with gold.
"This," Mara said reverently, "is the Golden Lotus Oil. It is imported from the distant Southern Isles. It is the Emperor's favorite scent. He requires all his wives to wear it on their wedding night. It makes the skin glow like moonlight."
Aanya's blood ran cold.
Oil.
The Alchemist's voice screamed in her memory: "The resin is hydrophobic... but organic solvents, specifically heavy oils, will break the chemical bond instantly."
"No," Aanya whispered, backing away until her back hit the marble rim of the pool. "I cannot use oil. It... it gives me a rash."
"Nonsense," Mara said, uncorking the bottle.
A thick, intoxicating scent filled the steam-filled air. It was heavy, sweet, and cloying—like flowers left too long in the sun. It smelled rich. It smelled dangerous.
"The Emperor commands it," Mara said, her voice hardening slightly. "You must smell of the Lotus. It is tradition."
"Please," Aanya begged, tears pricking her eyes. "Put it on my neck. Put it on my wrists. Just not the face."
"The face is the prize, My Lady," Mara said, pouring the thick, golden liquid onto a soft silk sponge. "It must shine."
The maid stepped into the pool. The water lapped around her waist. She approached Aanya like a nurse approaching a difficult patient.
"Hold still. It will be soothing."
Aanya tried to turn her head. She tried to push the maid away.
But two other maids appeared at her sides, holding her shoulders gently but firmly. "Relax, Your Highness. Do not struggle. You will bruise."
They held her.
Mara raised the sponge. It dripped with gold.
"Close your eyes."
Aanya squeezed her eyes shut. She held her breath. Maybe it won't work, she prayed wildly. Maybe the Alchemist was wrong. Maybe it takes time.
The sponge touched her right cheek.
It was not soothing.
The reaction was immediate and violent.
It felt like acid. The moment the lipid-heavy oil touched the resin, chemistry took over. The complex polymer chains that Silas Thorne had engineered to bond with her skin began to unravel at a molecular level.
Aanya felt a sudden, terrifying coolness. The tightness of the mask—the pressure she had grown used to—vanished.
Then, she felt the slide.
"There," Mara said, wiping the sponge down Aanya's cheek in a long, smooth stroke. "See? It is—"
Mara stopped.
She pulled the sponge away.
The sponge was not just oily. It was covered in a thick, beige sludge.
And on Aanya's face, the "skin" was moving.
It looked like melting wax. The perfect, creamy cheekbone dissolved into a slurry of pigment and goo. It dripped down her jawline like mud in a rainstorm.
"What..." Mara whispered, staring at the sponge.
Aanya let out a choked sob. She brought her hand up to her face. Her fingers touched wet, slimy paste.
She wiped.
The resin came away in a clump.
And underneath, revealed in the harsh light of the bathhouse lanterns, was the truth.
The red, twisted, angry ridges of the burn scar. The white, shiny tissue of the old wound. The skin that had been boiled and broken seven years ago.
It was hideous. It was raw. And contrasted with the perfection of her left side, it looked monstrous.
The younger maid screamed.
It was a shrill, piercing sound that echoed off the marble walls. She dropped the towel she was holding.
"Her face!" the girl shrieked. "Her face is falling off!"
Mara backed away, splashing through the water, her eyes wide with horror. "Demon... she is a demon..."
Aanya stood in the water, the golden oil mixing with the beige sludge running down her neck. She was shaking uncontrollably. She was exposed. The lie was gone.
The heavy double doors of the bathhouse slammed open.
"What is this screaming?"
The voice was deep. Commanding. Irritated.
King Darius stood in the doorway. He was wearing a silk sleeping robe, his chest bare. He held a goblet of wine in one hand. He had come early, impatient for his prize.
He looked at the scene. The screaming maids huddled in the corner. The water rippling in the pool.
And the girl standing in the center.
Aanya looked up. She couldn't hide. The sludge was dripping off her chin. The scar was gleaming red, wet with oil and steam.
Darius dropped his goblet.
It shattered on the marble floor, red wine spilling like blood.
He walked to the edge of the pool. His face didn't show fear. It showed a confusion that slowly, terrifyingly, curdled into rage.
He looked at the perfect porcelain doll he had bought. And he saw the cracks.
"What..." Darius pointed a trembling finger at her face. "What is that?"
Aanya opened her mouth to speak, to beg, to explain. But no words came out. Only a sob.
"You..." Darius whispered. His eyes went cold. The look of adoration from the balcony was gone. In its place was the look of a man who had purchased a diamond and found glass.
"You are broken," he spat.
He turned to the guards standing behind him.
"Get her out of the water," Darius roared, his voice shaking the walls. "And fetch the Merchant Kael. Tell him... tell him his merchandise is defective."
Aanya sank into the water, wishing she could dissolve like the mask. But the water only washed away the last of the lie, leaving the scar to burn under the Emperor's hateful gaze.
The porcelain had shattered. The nightmare had begun.